


You're the pulse that I've always needed.

by kjstark



Series: Football RPF one-shots [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjstark/pseuds/kjstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> When enemies are at your door<br/>I'll carry you away from war<br/>If you need help, if you need help.<br/>Your hope dangling by a string<br/>I'll share in your suffering<br/>To make you well, to make you well.</p>
</div>Set after the awful 7-1 defeat against Germany.
            </blockquote>





	You're the pulse that I've always needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I got asked both over here and on tumblr to write something after the match with Germany. I had very little inspiration and desire to write because that match seriously broke me in many ways. 
> 
> I just want to say that I do not think the resul was because Neymar wasn't there per-se, I think they emotional and psychological inestability DUE TO THE FACT that Ney wasn't there was a big factor, but Neymar is not God, so it's not all his fault. If all, that result remains a mystery as to who was to blame tbqh. 
> 
> ANWYAY, here, have bby Oscar needing Neymar badly, enjoy, review! 
> 
> ps. English is not my first language, yadayadayada

It was by far the worst day of his life. The worst day of their lives. There was no good thing Oscar could collect from that godforsaken day. Humiliating was an understatement, sad didn’t cut it. Devastating was more fitting than anything else. And the worst part is that he couldn’t shake it off. He had no idea if his teammates were as bad as he was but sometimes he couldn’t breathe.

David Luiz was probably the one to stand stronger, for all of them. Walking out of the pitch with his head high and apologizing to people was one of the greatest things he’d seen David do, and Oscar shared half of all his days with the guy.

He remembers that day in slow motion. All in slow motion. The first half and the five neat goals. Fred’s face, Julio’s sighs. He missed Thiago’s cheerful speeches, he missed the energy, the way their hearts made their feet move and made them win. Saying that he missed Neymar was such a little statement; it almost felt like a lie. He didn’t work well on the middle, he didn’t connect to Fred as he did to Neymar and everyone and their mother knew that. Back to the game, he didn’t really know what went wrong, none of them did. David took all the blame for the messy defense, and Oscar silently took all the blame for their scoreless half, Fred however already blamed himself for all. Scolari gave the regular speeches, the regular encouraging techniques, said that he was proud of them all and just like that, the second half was on.

Oscar felt the change the first ten minutes, and his heart started pounding so fast he was almost smiling. Up until they scored another one, and it was all a nightmare again. Their people were booing them and Oscar really didn’t know how it could get worse than that. They scored one more and Oscar saw his teammate’s heart sinking.

He played still, ball on his feet and he drove it through the field like only he could. He moved to the side, avoiding German’s defense, and shot the ball to the center. But no one was there to send it straight home. Oscar swallowed hard the knot forming inside his throat. He could almost see him, faded like a ghost because he knew Neymar was at his home in Guaruja and not there staring back at him, but he could almost see blonde hair and bright eyes gazing at him with sorrow. He shook his head and carried on with the suffering.

Once more he shot the ball to the Neymar-less center and no one made the Brazilian people smile. Oscar wanted to scream so bad he was sure his head was going to explode.

They left him all alone. _You need to do this, just one, like you promised, Neymar’d do the same for you_. And he could almost feel like he closed his eyes and the goal appeared in the scoreboard. The reality however didn’t present you reasons to be happy, just thirty seconds after the goal the referee was already making the whistle sound and Oscar felt the ground beneath him shaking.  

He fell like a rock, because he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t bare it. He felt sadness in his life before, but nothing ever came close to this. He’d lost matches before but something about this one made it all worse. He felt people trying to cheer him. He remembered Chelsea’s teammate Schurrle giving him a tight hug and telling him that it was all fine. That he gave his all and that’s what’s important. That he’s still young and more things are to come. He remembered he didn’t even thank him for his words or congratulated him for winning.

Thiago, the ever voice of reason, was the one who did it best. He just hugged him. Let Oscar cling to him like a newborn to his mother’s chest. He just soothed him. Didn’t promise any lies, didn’t give any bullshit, because Thiago knew better. And Thiago was taking the blame for the 7-1 like the very martyr captain he is.

The road back to La Granja was sad and bitter and so not what his team deserved. Oscar avoided at all costs newspapers, television, internet and his phone. Critics came, but they weren’t poisoned and hateful. With all the self-loathing he had more than enough. That night was quiet, but no one really slept well.

 

* * *

 

It was early morning when they were done eating when Dani came out of a room holding his phone. “Guys, Ney wants to talk to us,” he informed, holding his Samsung up. Marcelo stood and grabbed it, set it to speaker and yelled ‘Hi’, then they were all saying hello and asking him how he was. All of them but Oscar spoke.

“Is everyone there?” Neymar asked from the speaker, and Oscar had no idea why but he stood up and left.

He went straight to the gym because his chest was closing tightly and he was feeling agitated, at 9am, and before training. He took the weights, heavier than he could manage easily, but he took them anyway. He felt the slow, piercing burn of the good kind of pain. He felt drop after drop of sweat falling off his forehead, he lifted and he lowered it and so and so. The game replayed and replayed in his head and he almost felt like having a panick attack.

_Oscar._

And he pushed and he pulled. And Germany scored so many goals and he was closing his teeth so hard his mouth ached.

_Oscar._

And they were losers and they were marked, scarred forever as the one Brazilian team who lost 7 to 1, and people were spitting them and his mother cried.

_Oscar._

And he couldn’t breathe and his arms were shaking, shrinking, and he wanted to go back when it didn’t hurt. He wanted to go back to being eleven and cool because he played football. He wanted to go back to his first payment due to playing. He wanted to go back to being a boy playing football ‘cause it was fun and it impressed people. He wanted to go back to having a crush on Neymar and doing absolutely nothing about it except lifting him up in the field when they scored a goal together and fool around in the dressers later. He just really wanted to take it all away.

“Oscar, dammit!” Neymar yelled, almost angry. Oscar opened his eyes and found the number ten just inches away from his sweaty face. He was disoriented, lost, and Neymar was breathing down his lips and looking at him with genuine concern.

“What’s wrong?” Because seriously, what was wrong? What had been wrong?

“Let go of this,” he asked, taking the weights of his shaking hands and placing them in the rester, right above Oscar’s face. “You’ve been down here for an hour and a half.”

“What are you doing here?” and Oscar wasn’t sitting up. Mostly because he was still dizzy, but also because he was literally between Neymar’s legs, he couldn’t afford weird moves that ended in awkward situations. Not now. Not again.

“Someday, I’m gonna feel insulted you keep asking that every time you see me,” he said, almost jokingly. Neymar looked down and realized how and where he was standing. He moved one leg to the other side of the chair of the weights and touched Oscar’s legs so he’d sit up. He adjusted just as Neymar sat, and they both stared at the glass in front of them. Silent. “I need to ask—

“Please, don’t—

“What were you doing here, right now?” he wondered. Oscar blinked because he didn’t think that’s what Neymar had to say, but there he was. Oscar looked at bright honey eyes and breathed, his lunges suffocating his heart in a way that watered up his eyes. Neymar laid his right hand on his bared knee and Oscar lost it.

He rested his head on Neymar’s collarbone and cried all over him like he couldn’t back at that awful day. Above his head Neymar moved his chin to rest it on it. Looking at David Luiz and Thiago picking right out the door, worried about Oscar too. He moved his head slightly to one side, motioning for them to give them a moment, and they silently walked out. Neymar rolled his right arm around the taller’s boy shoulders and his left hand to rub behind his ear, soothing.

They stood like that for quite some minutes, they didn’t wear watches. And more importantly, they needed this.

Neymar’d seen the game at his house with his family and he asked twice if someone had given him painkillers because he felt drugged during the whole thing. He saw them all trying so bad, but Oscar was the one that hurt. Oscar was the one who made him squeeze the couch’s arm rester, the one who made his stomach shrink, his heart stop. Oscar was playing as if he was on the pitch, putting those neat shots in the center, those shots he so easily caught and made important, but no one was there to shoot them, and Oscar was probably screaming his name in his head and Neymar was screaming at the TV right back.

He didn’t see him score, because he was too shocked and upset and his father was cursing too much. He didn’t see him cry but he sure as hell felt him.

“I’m sorry,” Oscar said, back in reality. Voice firm but sad, he was done crying.

Neymar bit his lower lip, and said: “I’m sorry, too.” Oscar looked at him, bemused. “I’m part of the team, right? So I’m part of that failure,”

“Neymar…”

“Don’t be like the rest of the world and think you lost because I wasn’t there. I’m not a defender. Me being there could’ve only made the game end 7-2,” he refuted, quietly. Oscar only but shook his head. What happened at the pitch was only a mystery. “We lost because we didn’t win,” Neymar said, bitterly. Oscar remembered hearing those words somewhere before, they made sense now. He was looking at his hands, face not changing. “Hey, you gotta stop this role-switching thing. You’re the one who tells me to behave and lectures me about the importance of the sport and stuff, remember?” and he was trying to be funny, but Oscar was so out of himself he couldn’t even curve his lips a little. “Oscar, hey,” he grabbed his face with his hands and made him look. “I have great news for you today, we’ve hit rock bottom, you know what’s left to do now?” and Oscar lazily raised one eyebrow. Neymar pulled his face closer and whispered truthfully, “pushing ourselves and raising back up.”

Neymar was giving him this hopeful smile, it was like they were starting to dream again. Oscar smiled back, because how could he not?

“I missed you.” He wasn’t sure if he meant at the game or everywhere. Neymar blinked, he didn’t move.

“I saw it,” he said, serious, but then he smiled widely. “Even the sports narrator saw it,” he tried to laugh, but he choked a little. Oscar just let the embarrassment grow bigger. “And I missed you, too.” He didn’t knew when he leaned to rest his forehead against Oscar’s but he knew it felt nice. “I’m gonna stay here until the end. I’m going with you guys to the match with Holland. If you’re going down, I’m not gonna let you go alone. That’s not what friends are for,”

“Best friends,” Oscar corrected, and they were still not moving. Neymar opened his eyes and noticed Oscar had closed his. He didn’t hesitate to move his chin a couple of inches forward and press his lips against Oscar’s. Oscar didn’t flinch, didn’t react aggressively. Probably because he had it coming, they kept playing this tentative game hoping one day they’d win. But that’s not the case today. “This is not right,” Oscar said, but he was almost smiling.

“Nah. It is right, just not right now,” he said, shrugging. Then he leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” he said, grinning at him like a child with a candy.

“For what?” Oscar asked, amused.

“For keeping your promise. You scored one goal for me,” and Oscar rolled his eyes because only Neymar could think that one goal was just for him.  

“I promised a game. I missed seven more,” he joked, what else could he do.

Neymar rolled his eyes, fakingly, “well, you can score seven more in Copa America, with me,” he offered, showing his fist to Oscar. “We’ll take the whole world, you and I, deal?” and he remembered a less-stylish Neymar, with a number eleven jersey and head full of dreams.

“Deal.” Because they were eighteen again.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, fun fact: the "sports narrator noticed" was actually true, okay, I was watching the game and my narrator, who I suspect is a hardcore Neyscar shipper, said "The one who's truly affected by Neymar's absence is Oscar. He must miss him a lot!" and it was because Oscar kept assisting some nice ass goals but no Ney was there to score them :C


End file.
